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rejectomorph

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Fragmented [Jul. 19th, 2010|12:00 am]
rejectomorph
It was somewhere that was then still outside Los Angeles. Heat-bent light rippled the pavement, the still summer air was made wind by the car's motion. Going somewhere, I don't recall where, that day when the scored lines of flat brown fields drew my eye to the row of drooped eucalyptus, I coveted the shade they cast and the silence I imagined enfolding that distance. Beyond them was a grove of some sort, dark shine wrapping green leaves, perhaps water seeping rootward through the brown earth they dappled.

The bent light was like a shimmering transparent sea where a range of hills floated. The angle of the road we traveled made the hills seem to drift, and I pictured them departing, a vast tract that would diminish and vanish, never to return. We were not going to those hills. It was somewhere else we were bound, where the moment would be lost.

It remained lost until today, when heat-bent light brought it back, bearing the ghost of the field and trees and orchard, and conjured the image of those hills that seemed to drift. How long ago was it? I must have been five or six. The scene must have long since been displaced by buildings and multiplying roads, but here's its unchanged memory filling another place a near lifetime later. So this is where those hills were drifting, not on bent light but on my own imagination. How strange it was to see them again, and stranger still to see myself watching them from so long ago. It makes me wonder what would have become of me had I gone with them.




Sunday Verse


Strawberries


by Edwin Morgan


There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open French window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you

let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

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